


5 Times Crowley Failed To Prank Aziraphale + 1 Time He Succeeded

by Z A Dusk (snakeandmoon)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5+1 Things, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley in Love (Good Omens), Book Omens, Bookshop Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fic Exchange, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gift Fic, Kissing, M/M, Making Love, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Snake Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27310585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk
Summary: It's a cold night in sixteenth century Scotland, and Crowley in a moment of panic tries to disguise himself when he arrives at Aziraphale's cottage. It fails - and a certain demon swears he is going to prank a certain angel, one of these days. It takes a little longer than anticipated. After all, just because you're an angel, doesn't mean you have to be a fool.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 91
Collections: Trickety-Boo! Exchange





	5 Times Crowley Failed To Prank Aziraphale + 1 Time He Succeeded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kahlannightwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kahlannightwing/gifts).



> A gift for [Kahlannightwing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kahlannightwing/profile) as part of the Trickety Boo 2020 gift exchange. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> This is based more on the book than the show, though as I'm more familiar with the show there might be a little unintentional crossover.
> 
> Thanks as always to my ridiculously talented beta [Mira Woros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/profile) both for betaing it and for helping me develop the idea.

**Scotland, 1562**

Crowley stamped his feet and blew on his fingers, as if that would warm him up. Scotland was blasted cold, and ill-suited to a serpent. But Aziraphale was there, and Crowley hadn’t seen him since the turn of the century, when he’d agreed to tempt a feudal lord to graze his sheep on his rival’s land, seeing as he was going to Scotland anyway to perform a standard moment of divine inspiration for a talented young harpist.

Crowley thought that he might owe Aziraphale two blessings in return for sending him to this satan-forsaken frozen place.

He’d dressed in a thick tunic and woollen cloak to blend in with the locals. Aziraphale, in typical scatter-brained fashion, had included the village in his letter, but not the actual address. Crowley wandered into the local tavern and asked if anyone had seen “a man with hair like a bird's nest and probably a pile of parchment?” When that failed, he’d asked anyone whose path he crossed in the village.

Finally a freckled child with muddy knees and a grin full of mischief had said yes, a man who looked like that had rented a crofter’s cottage. Crowley bribed them with several coins, and they led him to the tiny stone dwelling on a heather-drenched hillside. 

Of course he hadn’t expected to gather several more children along the way, like a reluctant pied piper. By the time he reached the door of the croft, he had quite the audience.

“Shouldn’t you lot be getting home? Might be all kind of monsters up here on this hill.”

His young guide giggled. “We’re not scared of monsters, sir!”

Crowley groaned. Nothing for it but to knock on the door. Aziraphale opened it, his face breaking into a smile at the sight of Crowley, before he spotted his entourage.

“Och, sir, I was wondering if I might come in and discuss … yon sheep that have wandered out of their field, aye.”

Aziraphale managed to keep a straight face, but a muscle jumped in his jaw from the effort.

“Yes, young man. Please, come inside so we might ... discuss ... the sheep.”

He ushered Crowley into the cottage, and the demon gratefully kicked the door shut behind him. As soon as he did, Aziraphale burst out laughing, and Crowley couldn’t help but join him, until they were both wheezing and clutching their sides.

“Those poor children, Crowley, lord knows what they thought. What on earth were you trying to do?”

“I don’t know!” Crowley hissed a sigh, shaking his head. “I panicked and thought it might be safer to pretend you didn’t know me.”

“Safe from whom? Our respective sides hardly care.”

“I know.” He leaned in and gave the angel a slow kiss. “Can’t a demon pretend to be a random Scotsman, anymore?”

“Pretend to be whatever you like dear, so long as it brings you to my door.” His laughter made Crowley’s skin prickle with sudden heat. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Crowley shrugged. “Got bored. Thinking about Rome.”

Aziraphale’s smile turned a little naughty.

“And what were you thinking?” he inquired, pulling Crowley’s cloak from his body, sliding one hand under his tunic to squeeze, warm and suggestive, against his thigh. 

“That I’m bloody desperate to get my hands on you again.”

Aziraphale sat down, guiding Crowley down to straddle his hips. He pulled the demon’s head back by his hair to kiss warm patterns into his neck and throat.

“I’m all yours,” he said, voice thick as honey wine as he stroked Crowley’s chest. 

Crowley wrapped both arms around the angel, hands sliding eagerly under his clothes. Neither of them thought about anything else for several long, glorious hours. 

The next year at the end of October, he received a letter from Aziraphale.

_My dear boy, you have begun a trend. Those children saw your laudable pretense of being a Scotsman, and decided to dress in costume and go door to door, seeing if they might get some soul cakes or other seasonal treats. Hell will no doubt give you a commendation for encouraging children to avarice._

_Yours,_

_A_

Crowley grinned and manifested a sheet of parchment from raw firmament.

_A,_

_I got a far better treat than soul cakes. Call it our new tradition?_

_C_

A few days later, he received a reply.

_Ah, but you see they must do a trick or recite a poem to receive their reward. I shall expect an impressive trick in return for the treat you so desire, you wily old serpent._

_Yours,_

_A_

Crowley folded the letter, sucking thoughtfully on the nib of his writing quill. The angel was no fool, but he was a little naive at times. Surely tricking him wouldn’t be too hard?

* * *

**Budapest, 1898**

“I thought your lot looked down on ostentation?” Crowley teased as he strolled into Aziraphale’s Budapest townhouse. 

The angel shrugged, getting up to greet Crowley with a slow kiss.

“So long as the actual worship goes to the Almighty, you know.”

“Do they know you worship books?”

“Dear, I don't think they care a fig whether I worship books. Too busy thinking up new ways to give humans the chance to prove themselves capable of righteousness, or some such. Besides, don’t tell me you don’t approve. I know you. You like a nice smoking jacket, a pipe, and a thick comforter as much as the next eldritch being.”

Crowley took off his coat and glasses and snaked a hand over the ornate walnut bannister. “Give me the tour then, angel.”

The tour, as it turned out, started and ended at Aziraphale’s bed. Somewhere in the haze of pleasure-drunk moans and the press of skin to skin, Crowley found the breath to tease that he hadn’t had to work too hard for a treat after all, which earned him a quick pinch to the nipple, followed by the consoling lap of an angelic tongue.

“I’ll prank you one of these days,” he told Aziraphale after, as they lay tangled in the sheets and each other. 

Aziraphale laughed like a spill of sunlight, lighting a cigarette and passing it to Crowley before lighting one for himself.

“As you did in Scotland, you mean? I should like to see that, dear boy.”

Crowley leaned over and nipped at his shoulder, lingering to taste the salt there. 

“You’ll see,” he said without rancor. But then Aziraphale’s lips were warm against his lower belly, sucking firmly, and all rational thought flew out the window.

The following night, as they sat down to a fine feast of paprika-flavoured Halászlé followed by decadent Somlói Galuska, Crowley started telling Aziraphale about the latest craze in London for table rapping and projections of ectoplasm. The angel got that gleam in his eye usually reserved for rare editions of Coleridge or Blake.

“Fascinating idea. The thought that humans might find a way to contact something beyond the physical … I wonder how that would alter their relationship to the Almighty? To the afterlife?”

“You’re not suggesting it could be done? Surely that’s blasphemy?”

The angel rolled his eyes. “You and I both know blasphemy is just a fancy word for having an opinion.”

Crowley grinned. He’d never say it, but Aziraphale’s enthusiasm for his interests was very fetching. Another idea was brewing in his mind too. 

Unfortunately the night included several glasses of very good apricot pálinka. Crowley had meant to plan it out carefully. Figured that if he piqued the angel’s interest just right, sowed a few seeds, he might be able to instill a little doubt, fan the flames of his occasional incredulousness.

He hadn’t planned to use a clumsy miracle to rap on the table and cause the soup tureen to skate across the surface. Even tipsy, Azirphale wasn’t fooled for a second.

“Really, my dear,” he murmured. “How much pálinka have you had?”

“Table rapping!” Crowley exclaimed triumphantly, if drunkenly. “Must be something to the old stories!”

“Dear fellow, you are far too drunk to prank me.”

“I’ll get you one day, you wait,” Crowley slurred as Aziraphale pulled him from the chair, steadying him with an arm around his waist.

“If you say so. Now let’s get you to bed.”

“Not gonna say no to that,” he agreed, staggering into a clumsy kiss.

“Again? I could be tempted. Let’s get you sobered up first.”

Crowley felt getting sober was well worth the reward, and said so. Aziraphale gave him an indulgent look and snapped his fingers, landing them both thoroughly naked in the luxurious bed, the ridiculous table rapping thoroughly forgotten.

* * *

**London, 1938**

Aziraphale sat back in his favourite chair, and took a mouthful of the Château Haut-Brion Crowley had brought with him. 

“Mmm, this is utterly delicious, dear boy. Excellent choice.”

There was a hiss by his ear. “Figs, currants, sweet tobacco … ssssomething herby?”

Aziraphale took another sip, let it roll on his tongue. “Yes, I do think you’re correct.”

Crowley rubbed his face against Aziraphale’s cheek, scales rasping. 

“You seem tired,” the angel told him, and Crowley wondered how on earth he could tell while Crowley was snake-formed.

“I know you,” Aziraphale said, as if he’d heard him. “I made three references to Heaven, and you didn’t give one sardonic rejoinder. You haven’t even started the ginger and dark chocolate brownie bites, and those normally vanish with the speed of the best magician disappearing his assistant.”

“Edible assistants. You going to try those next? Might be better to make them into gingerbread men.”

Aziraphale gave an exasperated sigh. “My point is, Crowley, you are clearly tired. Are you well?”

“What? Yeah, course. Just gets so damn busy this time of year.”

“I’m afraid you rather brought that on yourself. The whole end of October madness started gaining momentum after Scotland.”

“Don’t remind me,” Crowley groaned and coiled his tail around Aziraphale’s forearm. “Jusssst be quiet and let’s drink.”

“Can you drink in this form?”

“Demon. Can do whatever I want.” Crowley told him, sticking his snout in the wide wineglass and swallowing liquid in a somewhat un-snake-like fashion. 

They lapsed into comfortable silence for a while, Aziraphale leafing through Sotheby’s auction catalogue, Crowley half-dozing coiled around the angel’s shoulders, with his snout tucked in behind Aziraphale’s ear. A fire crackled in the grate, and when Crowley flicked out his tongue, he tasted woodsmoke, tea, and the flavour of parchment and bergamot that he associated with the angel.

He felt a flash of naughtiness emanating from Aziraphale before the angel broke the silence.

“Was the War of the Worlds broadcast debacle meant for me?”

“Ngk. Still haven’t managed to prank you, have I? Thought something with more global impact might do the trick.”

“Better than trying to convince me you’d found Dagon’s lost halo? Or turning my best wine to vinegar?”

“Look, that would have worked if I remembered to disguise the vinegar smell and we both know it.”

“If you say so, dear.” Aziraphale stroked the scales along Crowley’s jaw and under his chin. Crowley tried to wriggle away and act offended, but it was hard when Aziraphale was so warm and soft, and the fire was making him drowsy. 

“I'll get you next time,” he promised. 

“Mhm.” Aziraphale planted a soft kiss atop his head. 

“Jussst you wait.”

* * *

**April Fool’s Day 1957**

“Spaghetti trees, my dear? Really?”

* * *

**London, 1991, the year after the world didn’t end**

Crowley absolutely did not celebrate Halloween. He was a demon of the world, yes, but he was too suave to hang pumpkin-shaped lights in the bookshop. And he certainly wouldn’t be caught procuring jack-o-lantern shaped pasta, ready to pair with his signature dish of cacio e pepe sauce that Aziraphale so enjoyed.

He’d let a few early trick or treaters see his eyes on the way to the bookshop, and given them a mild fright. That helped balance the scales. Besides, he was sure he could think of a few ways to prank anyone who dared knock on the bookshop door that night.

Satan, it was nice not worrying about quotas any more. He could make mischief when his fingers itched too much not to, but it was casual. Content, he sighed and let himself shift into snake form. Aziraphale had left him in charge of the bookshop, because there was a Sotheby’s auction he simply couldn’t miss. Crowley quite liked being alone in the bookshop. He could coil in the patch of faint October sunlight on the windowsill, where he was perfectly positioned to rear up with an impressive hiss and see off any customers who had funny ideas about buying books.

Besides, he had a nice little prank planned. This was the year he’d finally succeed.

“Comfortable, dear?” 

Crowley raised his head groggily, shaking it quickly. 

“Must have fallen asleep.”

“Clearly. Busy day?”

“Oh yeah. Hordes of people came in. I even let them buy the books. One of the buggers made off with your misprinted bibles.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “What a terrible bookshop snake you are. Never mind. I have a bottle of that Hennessy Black you like. Join me?”

“Ssssounds good.” Crowley slithered around Aziraphale’s outstretched arm so he could accompany him to the drinks cabinet. “Mind if I stay like this?”

He gestured with his tail to the rest of himself.

“Of course not. I do like how easy to hold you are in this shape.”

Crowley gave an indignant hiss, but soon settled when Aziraphale took off his tie and opened the first three buttons of his Oxford button-down, so Crowley could slide under his shirt and enjoy the heat of his skin. For a while, they stayed entwined in companionable silence, Aziraphale savouring his brandy and occasionally regaling Crowley with tales from the auction, Crowley mostly listening, occasionally drifting into a light doze, lulled by Aziraphale’s warmth and nearness.

Then Aziraphale got up to make tea and noticed the box of chocolates on the tiny prep table in the kitchen. Crowley resisted the urge to hiss with delight, hoping it would be easier to hide his glee in this form. 

“Chocolates? How lovely, dear boy.” He lifted one to his mouth and popped it inside, while Crowley struggled to stay composed. “Mmm, quite tasty. The fusion of chocolate and Brussels sprouts is quite unusual, but not unpalatable, once one is past the initial surprise.”

Crowley disentangled himself from the angel’s shirt and landed on the counter, rearing up in a disgruntled way. “What?!”

“My dear, how could you forget that I am quite the connoisseur of unusual culinary combinations? That was never going to work I’m afraid. Oh, don’t sulk now.” He curled his fingers under Crowley’s chin and tilted his face up. “Come drink brandy with me, and I’ll make it up to you with that tongue thing you so enjoy.”

Crowley couldn’t help hissing a laugh as Aziraphale scooped him up. He could get used to spending time together without the threat of Armageddon looming, he decided.

* * *

**Somewhere in the South Downs, 1993**

“Crowley, are you quite certain?”

“Yes, angel. Old Mr. Rose at the bookshop called while you were out getting pastries.”

“How exciting, if it is true! The Printer’s Bible is the only one missing from my collection. _Printers have persecuted me without a cause_ \- one rather feels the psalmist may have been a little prophetic. He knew the evils of technology long before his time.”

“Well, what are you waiting for, angel? Go talk to him!”

As soon as the door closed behind Aziraphale, Crowley sat back in his favourite chair - a leather recliner that he’d persuaded the angel to accept as an outlier among his well-worn velvet seats - and waited.

Fifteen minutes later his phone rang. He flipped it open with a grin.

“You’ve reached Anthony J. Crowley …” he greeted the angel, doing his best to sound suave. 

“ …. Yes thank you dear fellow, I will pay for the call of course … Crowley? You won’t believe it. Some blighter got in before me and made off with the bible! Mr. Rose remembered his phone number, thankfully, so I am going to meet the buyer to do a deal. He wants to meet up at West Wittering beach for some godforsaken reason.”

“Want me to drive you, angel?”

“What? Oh no dear boy, it’s fine. A quick miracle should do the trick, to save time. Perhaps you might miracle yourself and the Bentley there, though? We could drive home together.”

“Terrific. See you shortly then.”

Crowley hung up the phone, stood, and gave his outfit a quick once-over. He had on the red shirt Aziraphale insisted went so well with his dark hair, and a sharp suit. He made a detour on the way to the Bentley to retrieve the package he’d hidden in the henhouse, because a demonic miracle indoors would have attracted the angel’s attention. Reaching the Bentley, he ran his hand over the bonnet.

“I know you don’t normally travel by miracle, but you’ll be fine,” he said, not quite certain which of them he was trying to reassure. Better hurry if he wanted to get there before Azirahphale. By his calculations, the angel would just be finishing a quick “just before you go, Mr. Fell” cup of tea with his fellow bibliophile, and preparing for launch, as it were. It was go time.

West Wittering was miraculously clear of people, as every last person had suddenly remembered they’d left the gas on or the door unlocked. It was a bright late October day, the wind blowing spoondrift from the waves, and the salt stinging Crowley’s cheeks pleasantly. He was a brisk ten minutes walk from Aziraphale and the “buyer’s” proposed rendezvous point. Exactly the right distance to intercept a flustered, frustrated angel.

Right on cue, Aziraphale appeared, stomping briskly across the sand and looking most inconvenienced.

“Alright, angel?”

“Crowley! What on earth are you doing here?”

“You asked me to pick you up, remember?”

“Well yes, but I was coming to the car park … nevermind. I am glad to see you.”

“Got the book then?”

Aziraphale gave him a look that could silence a banshee.

“No, I have not. I have no idea what Mr. Rose was playing at. He’d sold the man The Printing Bible: The Ultimate Guide for In-House Printers.” He brandished the offending item at Crowley, with a look on his face as if the tome smelled of rotten cabbages.

“But you bought it anyway.”

“Well, it would have seemed rude not to.” The angel pulled his soft cashmere coat closer around himself. “Come on. Let’s go somewhere warm.”

“Did you read it?”

“Read it? My dear fellow, why on earth would I read it?”

Crowley took a few steps towards the angel, noticing the way his curls danced in the cold sea breeze.

“Open it.”

“What?”

“Open it, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him a suspicious look, but complied. As his eyes scanned the first page, Crowley was treated to the sight of him frowning, then his mouth dropping open as he took in the words, before finally he dropped the book on the sand (a fact that Crowley would not let him forget) and flung both arms around the demon.

“Yes yes yes yes yes of course yes you silly thing,” he mumbled against Crowley’s shoulder as he held him tight.

Crowley let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding, one hand coming up to tangle in sandy-soft curls.

“Dear boy, you’re trembling,” Aziraphale said as he drew back to look at Crowley, who, in a moment of either genius or utter stupidity, had decided not to wear his glasses for this.

“Not every day I propose to an angel, is it?” He managed to affect a shrug as he drew a slender gold band from his pocket. It was engraved with delicate tree branches, leaves, and an apple. Aziraphale beamed and nodded, looking at him so fondly that Crowley felt his knees grow weak as he slipped the band onto Aziraphale’s finger.

“Come on then. Let’s go home. I’ll cook.”

“Oh, no, dear boy, we are going to that Thai place in Chichester you love. But first, let us walk along the beach a little more. I rather want some quiet time with my fiance before dinner.”

“Oh, angel.” Crowley smiled as he took the actual Printer’s Bible from inside his suit jacket and offered it to him. “You must really love me if you want to delay dinner.”

Aziraphale stopped walking, suddenly serious as he cupped Crowley’s face in his hands and kissed him soundly, there by the softly whispering waves, the moment punctuated by the cry of a gull overhead.

“Since I met you, and until past the end of everything.”

“That’s a long time, angel.”

“It needs to be. It’s my turn to prank you.”

Crowley laughed then, suddenly feeling free and reckless as he looped his arm through his husband-to-be’s and led him down the beach, towards the rest of their lives.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed it, let me know - comments and kudos are very encouraging for authors!
> 
> **Notes**
> 
> The [War Of The Worlds broadcast](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_War_of_the_Worlds_\(1938_radio_drama\)#Public_reaction) was an incident in which the public thought the radio drama of The War of The Worlds was an actual news report.
> 
> The [spaghetti tree hoax](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spaghetti-tree_hoax) was an April Fool's prank by the BBC. Apparently pasta wasn't well known in Britain at the time (this was 1957), so quite a few people fell for it! Aziraphale clearly did not.


End file.
